Midnight Rendezvouses
by Medusa Davenport
Summary: Hawke and Fenris seem to get into a lot of trouble when they wander out at midnight, from getting stuck in windows to thrown in jail.  Smattering of oneshots in the dark space between acts.
1. The Trouble With Rooftops

From the forum challenge "Midnight Rendezvous" as detailed by Celestial Chaos, which you can read up on at the bottom.

_**Up first:**_ (sorta) charming, mostly funny Warrior Hawke during Act 3. I'll get to all three classes and personality types. Because I want to. :D

**Warnings:** language! Really foul-mouthed Hawke in this one.

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><p>Fenris bounds on silent bare feet across the rooftops of the Hightown estates, skidding down a slant of shingled tiles and sliding to a halt on the roof of the illustrious Amell Estate. From here he can see clean across the courtyard to the Viscount's Keep, now empty of a ruler, and if he turns his head just a few degrees further, the Chantry spreads its spires toward the sky, a beacon of faith to shine above the city.<p>

He drops to his knees above the lone lit window of the Estate, stretching on his belly and dangling his head over the open window to peer upside-down at the room within. Something smacks him in the forehead and he jerks back up just as a string of creative, Fereldan-accented curses spews into the night below him. Fenris smirks and shakes his head. If Hawke is right, then the Maker and Andraste have _quite_ the interesting relationship. There is a loud clatter of metal armor that makes him wince and tighten his fingers around the stone edge and a series of erratic scraping and crashing noises. Then he hears the words, "Bloody hard-headed elf,"grumbled with a smile evident in the tone and he peers over the edge of the roof again.

Hawke's still in that brilliant new plate armor she found on the dragon they killed in the Bone Pit that afternoon, despite the fact that it's nearly midnight, and has managed to get the series of layered shoulder-spikes jammed in the window frame as she climbs out. One of her legs kicks out over the tangle of her garden below while the other clangs against the wall inside of her house in her effort to be free. After a moment of furious struggle she stills and shoots him a glance of ironic resignation. Her trapped arm is wedged to her side and she wiggles her metal-gauntleted fingers at him as her face tilts up and laughing blue eyes meet his.

"I think I'm stuck," she announces in a very serious tone. "Andraste's Maker-begattan hermaphrodite bastard whelp," she snarls, almost as an afterthought.

His eyebrow arches. "For shame," he comments, voice dry and deadpan, "What would the nobility of Kirkwall say to see their Champion stuck in her window in the middle of the night?" Fenris extends a hand to her un-pinned arm and they grip one another's wrists with the metal claws of their gauntlets.

"Shame be damned," she grins, giving him a smirk that usually turns his blood to lava. When she's not stuck in a window, of course. "I'll sneak around at night if I damn well please."

He chuckles and tugs on her arm to test and see if he can just yank her loose. No luck. "You have no shame, woman," he answers, which is honest enough. After all, she is an ale-swilling mercenary who cheats terribly at Wicked Grace and makes crude jokes about 'the multitude of dead idiots and prigs' she's seen and slain. He sighs, exasperated at this latest conundrum, and adds. "Nor grace or stealth, it appears."

"Maker's wet, slapping bollocks," she mutters, kicking her heel against the wall in an effort to gain purchase and leaving a scuff across the stone. Of course there are many such thumps and bumps around the house from Hawke's roughhousing, mercenary manners and her immense hound, Dog. Though Fenris has never met her brother Carver, he imagines that if he was anything like his sister (she claims he was), the house would be worse than the shambles of Denarius' manor, may he rot in hell.

"Lean your shoulder back inside," he orders, trying not to chuckle when she impulsively pushes forward and there's a terrible scraping noise followed by a cloud of stone powder. "And go through sideways."

She mutters a few more obscenities and as he tries to wrap his brain around a particularly vivid description of Andraste and the Maker and Hessarian, Hawke squirms back in and then scrambles out with a clatter of armor and curses, clinging to his hand and reaching for the roof with the other, hauling herself up with sheer strength. It's that strength that first drew him in, the shock and thrill of seeing a slender human woman whip a broadsword off her back and wield it with the same skill and ease he does, falling into a brutal synchronicity beside him no matter how many enemies surround them. That strength that allows her to grip his arms and shove him to his back as she kisses him an eager greeting.

"You are glad to see me," he comments when she clanks off him and sits forward, scooting away from the edge of the roof.

Hawke snorts, an unladylike sound that he's learned to love. "Maybe that blighted brush with death climbing out of my sodding window made me want a good hard tumble," she answers, eyes twinkling at him. Her teeth flash through the dark as she pushes hair from her eyes with a hand. "You know, half-dressed and rutting about all pounding full of bloodlust and the battle high."

Fenris lunges for her and shoves her back against the flat stone rooftop. "You will be the death of me, woman," he growls against her lips, tangling a hand in her hair as he kisses her.

"No," she answers, "You will be the death of _me_. Climbing me up onto the blighted Maker-damned rooftop to snap my neck and bloody die-" He interrupts her rant with another kiss, hoping to distract her by removing her clanky, clattering armor. But she pulls back and stares at him with swollen lips. "Can't we meet somewhere a bit less... death-defying?"

He snorts and occupies himself with tearing a piece off the red scarf around her neck to replace his raggedy-looking red band. "I thought you enjoyed defying death on a daily basis?" he asks, pulling off the blood and dirt-stained red scarf she gave him after she ripped his last one off his wrist in a fit of combined anger and clothing removal. He still doesn't regret being such a prig about the Antivan assassin and he never will, he thinks, a wolfish grin covering his features.

"Only if I'm getting paid," she grunts as he pulls at a buckle and tightens the armor against her throat. Her fingers swat his away and go to work, nimbly tugging the fastenings of the chest plate apart so he can remove the hulking suit of armor from around the small woman.

"You're a madwoman and you know it," he accuses, his voice muffled by his mouth on her neck. Her pulse jumps and the muscles of her shoulders quiver with laughter. "I do not know why I follow you still."

Hawke makes a noise that his half mock-offended, half challenge being taken up. She lunges up to kiss him breathless, her knees compressing his hips and her strong, lean arms winding around his back and into his hair. Her nipping teeth and heated tongue and the chapped, windburned lips draw all his focus, becoming the entirety of his universe as he returns her kiss. As he growls and grips her waist to pull her closer she pulls back to smirk at him for a second, bright eyes dancing with reflected starlight.

"Now I believe I am beginning to remember why," Fenris says before he leans down for more.

Their laughter echoes through Hightown, punctuated with the occasional clank of armor or muttered curse, growing breathless under the moonlight. In the shadows behind the pillars between the Viscount's Way and the Chantry, a dwarf and a pirate sit playing cards. With a sigh, the dwarf tosses a small, clinking bag to the pirate before the hand is out.

"Told you, Varric, I _know_ sex," the pirate purrs, fanning herself with her cards as the gasps and moans crest.

"All right, Rivaini, you win. They _are_ doing each other," the dwarf grumbles. He thought it would take at least three years of pining after Fenris' walkout. Whatever. He can make certain... adjustments in the retelling.

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><p><strong>Challenge 3: Midnight Rendezvous. (by Celestial Chaos)<strong>

This challenge is all about the ~love~. As we all know, there is a lot of downtime when playing the game where your characters are either a) in the camp, b) wandering around Vigil's Keep or c) chilling at the Hawke estate once it exists. And yes, we all know that there was some wink-wink-nudge-nudge going on around these places, so it's up to you to create a scene that involves just that!

When you accept the challenge, please reply with which pairing you'll be doing from the given sets below, specifying the gender of your Warden or Hawke. Once you complete the story please post it on the thread so we can read it and provide feedback!

_Here are the requirements for the story:_

1. Must be between 1000-2000 words in length.

2. Must contain one of the following pairings (Het, slash and femmeslash all welcome): Warden/Alistair, Warden/Morrigan, Warden/Leliana, Warden/Zevran, Hawke/Isabela, Hawke/Anders, Hawke/Fenris, Hawke/Merrill

3. Can be rated PG all the way to M at your discretion. Please mark clearly if the story is R or M rated!

4. Must involve the line, "Shame be damned, I'll sneak around at night if I damn well please." Either character may say this.

5. Must be completed within two weeks of accepting the challenge.

Good luck writers! :D


	2. The Issue With Horses

**Up now:** tactful Rogue Hawke. But wait- she can work it. She _is_ a rogue, after all. Takes place about a year before Act 2 starts (assuming that Act 1 took a few months to a year).

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><p>When the bars of the jail cell slam shut, Fenris whirls to face Hawke in an effort to hide his flinch at the sound. He glares daggers at her through the dark and can see a serene smile cross her lips despite the shadows. She sits, comfortable on the narrow stone slab that serves for a cot, with one leg propped up and an arm wrapped loosely around it, unapologetic for the situation they're in.<p>

"This is your fault," he growls, pointing a finger at her face. "If you would just-"

Hawke stands in a fluid motion and raises her brows. "I apologize, Fenris. If I had known we'd be arrested, I would never have dragged you out tonight," she says, her smile softened by the light of her eyes or the dark of the cell. The compassion lurking in the back of her gaze, a sort of gentleness that lends truth to her diplomacy and tact, makes him weak. He hates that in the past three years of acquaintance, her unrelenting tenderness and a strange if strong sense of justice have drawn him in and bound him to her more thoroughly than any chain Denarius might devise.

Fenris snorts and turns away from her before the proximity and his stress at being locked up can conspire to spur him into some foolish action he will regret. "How could you think we _wouldn't_ get arrested?" he asks bitterly instead. He grips one of the bars in his hand and presses his forehead to the cool metal.

He feels her presence near his back rather than hearing her, in spite of his sharp hearing. As ever, she moves without noise, stepping up until it's only the radiant heat of her nearby body against his that alerts him to how close she stands. "Fenris, I'm so sorry," she says, her hand on his shoulder careful not to press down or get too close to his skin. "I only wanted for you to have some fun. And hell, Kirkwall's jail can be fun if you look at as another part of tonight's adventure."

"I had no fun at any point tonight," he grumbles, though he lifts his head from the bars. The oppressive sense of defeat threatens to overwhelm him. "I never wished to be locked up again."

"Maker, I should have thought," she whispers, and that note of genuine sorrow in her voice makes his teeth grit together. "I never meant to do that to you, Fenris. Please know that I _never _want to hurt you." When her hand starts to slide away from his shoulder, though, he reaches up and grips her fingers to hold them in place. The metal of his gauntlet encloses the soft leather of her gloves and he imagines he is like a normal man, able to touch a woman's skin without fear or resentment.

"It is not you," he concedes, though the words still draw out through his gritted teeth, each one painful to admit. He wishes it was her fault he felt this way so that he could lash out at her. Yet he knows he cannot, if for no other reason than that he can't bear the thought of being so easily forgiven afterward. "It is this place."

"I know," she murmurs, her fingers lacing through his. It is not a comfortable pose, his hand lifted to his shoulder with the elbow jutting out between the bars, but to have her hand in his is a triumph and he will not waste it. He stiffens when something tickles his neck and realizes it's her hair brushing against his nape as she lowers her head. "I only wanted for you to enjoy doing something you had never done before. To experience freedom unlike any other, freedom that no one could give you."

He scowls through the bars, remembering the path that led to their arrest. The clatter of hooves and the chime of her laughter on the wind. "It was not enjoyable in the least," he answers.

The hair brushes against his neck again and Fenris shivers. "Not even for a moment?" she asks, a tone of gentle teasing in her voice. She notices his shiver and gasps, "Oh, are you cold? There's a blanket over here somewhere. It's not much, but-" When she tries to turn from him he keeps that iron grip on her hand and her attempt to pull away sends her rebounding into him as he turns to face her. She lands with a hand caught against his chest and another on the bars behind his head, effectively leaning against him. "Oh," she says again, eyes glittering a string of confusing, unreadable emotions at this distance.

Fenris feels a distant buzz in the back of his head and can't move his mind beyond the pressure of his hand on the small of her back or the intertwined, gloved fingers hovering over his pounding heart. Thank the Maker for the heavy metal of his chest piece, which prevents her from realizing how fast his pulse races. He watches the strands of her hair dance against her cheeks and forehead when his breath washes over her face.

From the first time he saw her lift her bow and fire a string of arrows, he was intrigued, though not necessarily impressed. But she could pull out a dagger and wreak rapid damage on a foe at close range. Once he saw her throttle a man with her bow and drop him in time to slam the arched wood into the face of another. She dodges around the battlefield with ease, sighting foes with her keen eyes, just as those keen eyes seem able to penetrate through to the heart of any person and see them for who they are. After all, she recognized the danger of that Chantry mother with cold tact and has both the courtesy and patience to attempt to understand the furious giant Arishok stewing at the Docks.

For all of her gentle tact and calm compassion, she is still a fighter, willing to kill and die for what she believes in. He wishes he could have her faith in man's better nature, that through trust one could more easily find those unworthy of such trust and deal with them accordingly. But he cannot trust, cannot even trust her fully, much as he may want to. Fenris knows that if anyone could ever fully understand him it is her, that she tries each day to comprehend him and to help him. Misguided as her help may be at moments like these, he muses, realizing that he's got her pressed against him in a jail cell.

"Hawke," he says, trying to keep his voice level. It comes out raspy and he takes another breath, lowering his hand from her waist slowly, in case she isn't steady on her own. "I do not like horses."

Just like that, the interminable moment breaks and she hops back from him. "I'm so sorry, Fenris," she says, shaking her head and pushing her hair away from her eyes with a shaking hand. "I didn't mean to, I mean, I'm sorry." He smirks to see her, usually so composed and able to lie with such ease and grace, fumbling for words around him. Her eyes widen in the gloom. "You're laughing at me," she accuses, but she smiles at him. It's the same smile she gave him earlier when she dragged him out of his mansion an hour before midnight: raw and real, abandoning that careful composure that enables her to walk into the Viscount's office (or, he thinks darkly, to enter a ball on his foppish son's arm) and walk out to hire the Coterie for security on her mine shipments and set apostates free while lying that they are dead with such smooth grace.

"I am thinking about what your neighbors will say when they discover you have been locked in jail for stealing a horse during a midnight excursion with an elven squatter," he answers. It occurs suddenly that even Aveline might not be able to keep him safe, new to her position as Guard Captain after only two years. He might be forced to abandon Denarius' manor and move to the Alienage with that irritating gnat of a blood mage.

Hawke settles on the bench and draws her leg up again. "They will say, 'For shame! Those Amells have the _worst_ luck with their daughters,'" she answers, and her smile fades too fast. She sighs and he watches her for a long moment. He knows she's had a few letters from her sister since she was sent to the Grey Wardens, but he can see that for all her smiles when she receives such mail, her eyes look a bit too bright when she folds the paper away.

Silence descends and he takes a deep breath. He moves to sit beside her on the bench, which is too narrow to maintain much distance, but they are not touching and she does not move, simply turning her head and resting her temple against her knee as she watches him with serious eyes.

"Shame be damned," he says quietly, a faint smile ghosting over his lips.

"I'll sneak around at night if I damn well please," she smiles again, eyes twinkling at him in spite of their surroundings. "You're right, Fenris. And to be honest, even if you didn't like riding the horse, I'm _glad_ I stole it. I had fun."

Fenris reaches out and touches her hand where it rests against the metal of the bench. After a moment their fingers weave together again. They sit in silence like that for who knows how long, before the sound of the jail opening rouses his head from where it's tucked on top of hers. Sometime in the night they tangled into a strange embrace made uncomfortable by the narrow space, so they are both sitting up with their legs tangled, her head against his chest and his arms around her shoulders.

The guard captain and the dwarf stare at them from the other side of the now-open bars. The dwarf sighs and hands the guard a clinking pouch which she takes with an outstretched hand, never relinquishing her pose of irritation that promises a stern lecture in the near future.

"You two are costing me a lot of money, you know," Varric grumbles.

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><p>AN I love Varric.


End file.
